I Demand to Know Who Is Responsible for This! (Me. It’s Me.)

Friday morning, I had a transvaginal ultrasound and bloodwork scheduled. This is what’s known in the fertility biz as “monitoring,” and you have to go through it if you’re doing IUI or IVF or whatever they invent tomorrow that coaxes babies out of recalcitrant gonads and uteri.

I hate transvaginal ultrasounds. I don’t want to go into the whole thing right now, but I do want to say that the Republican congressmen who think women who want abortions should have transvaginal ultrasounds before they can have a relatively uncomplicated medical procedure should be forced to sit on a robot dick.

Yes, that’s right: a robot dick, right in the pooper, for anyone and everyone who makes even one single woman get one of these when she doesn’t need one. They are vile. I made such a scene at my first one this cycle, they gave me Ativan. Do you know how hard it is to get Ativan right now? I was so obnoxious that they couldn’t give it to me fast enough. They threw that shit at me, while begging me to stop crying. That’s how bad.

Anyway, at my near-daily assault, Adam mentioned that there were a lot of potential eggs showing on the exam-room screen, which I was not watching, because everything inside the human body is repulsive.

At the time, I thought that was good news.

Then, at my next ultrasound, the doctor said something that sounded less positive.

“So, you’ve have good response,” she said. “But possibly too good. I need to look at your bloodwork, to make sure you aren’t at risk for Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome.”

Fortunately, I was on Ativan, so my response was basically, “Oh, word?”

Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome is not good. I’ll let you fall into your own Google k-hole if you want, but in short, it’s when your ovaries pop out too many eggs, and your estrogen skyrockets, and parts of your body that are ordinarily not suffused with fluid become sloshy. If it gets bad enough, your kidneys stop working so good, as do your lungs and other organs that you might want to be functioning at top capability.

If it gets rill-real bad, you can die. The only upside to this is that our culture loves a dead mom, and I assume a dead lady who was trying to become a mom is only slightly behind on the veneration scale. I could have become a secular saint this week, is what I’m saying.

Because that’s what was going on, albeit a really mild form of it. They cancelled my cycle and I took to my couch, where I curled up under my Slow-vercoat, which is what I call the bathrobe with a sloth printed on it that my mother-in-law got me for my birthday one year. It’s an almost guaranteed cure for depression, and yet I was very sad, because I don’t have a baby and also because I was in almost unbelievable pain, due to the fact that my ovaries were shooting off eggs like discount fireworks at a swap meet.

Sunday, Adam had to work, and I woke up in such bad straits, I actually called the doctor on call to ask if I was dying. I had to leave a message, but that’s fine, because it only took him three goddamn hours to call me back. By the time he did, I was so mad, I had reverted to gritted-teeth cheeriness. Adam tells me that this is terrifying, and way scarier than if I were to start yelling.

“Oh, hello,” I said brightly, like a washed up southern belle about to comment on how fast gin goes in the hot weather. “I’m so glad you called back.”

“Yes, sorry,” he said. “Er, busy morning.”

I told him my symptoms, which are mostly disgusting, so I’ll spare you. But to give you an idea of how outlandishly bad, let’s pretend that our conversation went like this:

In short, this is the third worst thing I’ve ever been through, and I once had surgery without anesthesia and saw my own intestines. It is fucking repulsive, and I can’t believe it’s even a thing. I’d be outraged at the person who did this to me, except that I signed up for it myself, and I really can’t take the self-esteem hit right now. I’m trying to be kind to myself, and outrage doesn’t fit in.